Running in Circles: An international mystery with a heart-stopping twist (Lucy Lewis Thriller Book 1)

by Claire Gray

  ‘You’re not useless,’ I say, in a voice that reminds me of my mother. ‘Or particularly old.’ I get out of my chair but don’t know what to do next, so just stand there on the balding mat.

  ‘How did you think I’d feel when you disappeared all day?’ he says, his voice hard. ‘It got dark and you were still gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking of myself as being disappeared.’

  ‘I thought you might be dead. I think that all the time now, about everyone, because it could be so. And there’s nothing I can do about it. And there’s something else. I’ve been speaking a bit with Jenna. I’m thinking about going to visit her for a while.’

  ‘What? In America?’

  ‘She’s living in Ireland at the moment. She’s teaching out there. But, yeah, all this has made me want to see her. I think it’s a parental instinct sort of thing; even though she wasn’t the one in danger the other day, I feel like I need to be near her. I need to see her. I’m going to go next week, I think.’

  ‘I guess I wouldn’t understand that.’

  He shakes his head for a moment, and then says: ‘I expect your parents are desperate to see you.’

  ‘How long will you go for?’ I ask, ignoring what he just said because, although I would love to see my parents’ faces again, I can’t go back to where they are. I’m not ready yet and don’t think I will be for a long time.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Steve says. ‘Probably not for very long.’

  I can tell, from the way he’s looking at me, that he knows he’s betraying me. We were supposed to get through this together. We were supposed to do something good with the newspaper.

  ‘What am I meant to do?’ I say, in a little whine that I hate. ‘I’m trying to help somehow, but I can’t without you.’

  ‘No, we can’t help anyone. We’ll only make things worse. I don’t know about you, but I make the wrong decision every time. Let’s leave it to the professionals.’

  ‘But, I really think Dolph and Maliwan...’

  ‘No,’ Steve says, holding his palm out like he’s telling a car to stop. ‘You’re wasting your energy with that.’

  ‘But at least I’m doing something. I’m not running away like you’re about to. This is just so ... disappointing.’

  ‘And it’s a waste of police time too. I know Kadesadayurat thinks so. He won’t say it to you, but he does.’

  Then no one speaks for a while. I sway in the middle of the room, while a standing fan I’ve never seen before rotates beside me, gently shifting my hair. Steve picks up a glass of water, holds it in his lap and stares into its depths.

  ‘Can you leave me alone?’ he says finally, without even looking up. ‘I’ve got such a hangover and I just need to think, okay? I can’t do it with you staring at me.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got important stuff to do anyway. I doubt you’d want to help with that.’

  I pluck the car keys up from beside his keyboard, and he watches as I walk to the door. I expect him to stop me, to say something that’ll fix all this and make us both smile, but he doesn’t. He lets me leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I immediately realise that I don’t feel like going to the scrapyard, the flats behind the hairdressers or anywhere else right now, but I’d rather drive in circles than sit in the office with Steve. Journalists, in my opinion, ought to have certain instincts, and all of mine are telling me to go after Dolph and Maliwan and to track down the owners of the ice cream parlour. I don’t know what else to do. Steve — he’s just crying to himself, drinking alone and puking all over his house. I meant what I said to him just now; it is disappointing. I never realised how much I look up to Steve until now; now that he’s letting me down.

  I drive at speed, but then get stuck on a narrow road behind a pickup truck, a group of backpackers huddled together in the back of it. One girl has her arm in a sling. All of them look at me in alarm, drawing closer to each other. I touch the brake and turn down a side street. Litter is strewn on the ground; a plastic bottle pops beneath my wheels and spins away against a wall. I just keep on going, making turns, switching lanes, weaving around pedestrians and mopeds. As I drive, I think. I run through everything that’s happened since the night of the bomb. I try to fit the pieces together. And I can’t help but think about my other, original horrible thing. The thing that led me to this island in the first place. It’s always tagging along, niggling at me to remember it. The baby could have been a real person by now.

  I blink and notice where I am for the first time in a while. The bike hire place is just near here. I pull over, thinking that I should pay for the bikes Lena and I lost yesterday. It would help to do something good.

  It’s just a short walk over a grass verge. Big black birds watch me, and only flap away at the last minute as I limp through the dust and dry grass.

  A row of bikes stand outside the shop, all shiny and unwanted. As I approach the open door, jingling some loose change in my pocket, I realise that I’m breathing very fast. I make an effort to slow myself down, feeling around my throat for a pulse but not able to find one. I entertain an idea that I died Thursday night, and now I’m stuck in a version of the island that is a sort of hell, like in a Twilight Zone episode or something.

  The man from yesterday sits inside the building. He has on a John Deere hat and is eating watermelon from a polystyrene box. Bits of bike are on the floor around him. He doesn’t look happy to begin with, but when he sees me his lips tighten even further.

  ‘Tell me why someone tried selling me my own bike this morning?’ he says, putting the food down on the floor and wiping his hands on his trousers.

  ‘Um ... they did?’

  ‘That crazy man from the beach. You give it to him or what? You seemed like nice girls. And now you’re back. You going to rob me?’

  ‘No! I came to apologise. We ran into trouble yesterday, with the storm and everything. In the end, we lost the bikes. I want to pay for them. We’re both sorry.’

  ‘How you lose them?’

  ‘All the rain and everything.’

  ‘Give me two hundred dollars and we’ll forget it.’ He knows that I’m lying.

  I pay him although it seems far too much. I just don’t like the way he’s looking at me; like I’m a criminal.

  ‘Which bike was it?’ I ask, although my face feels warm and wet and I just want to get out of here.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which bike did he try to sell you?’

  Silently, he points to a bike at the side of the shed. It’s Lena’s; the one that was stolen in the jungle. Stolen by a screaming man. I say: ‘Did he say where he got it?’

  He shakes his head and kicks at a bike chain on the floor, sending it slithering away.

  I go straight from there to the beach, parking crookedly on the kerb and scaring away a flock of birds. As I run onto the sand one of my shoes comes loose, and I nearly fall stooping to pick it up. Mike’s nowhere to be seen. A few people sit in groups, drinking and talking. There are figures out in the water too, just standing there like statues. I head towards where the beach is most rocky. I’ve seen him around there before, sitting in the jagged patches of shade, surrounded by dismembered crabs and empty bottles.

  He’s here. I catch the sound of his guitar first, and then I see him against a fallen log, which has been worn white and smooth like ivory. He is wearing the same clothes as last time and I can smell him as I approach. Sweat and old alcohol. I step up beside him and see ginger in his beard, which is longer than it was a couple of days ago. His eyes are closed as he plays but he knows that I’m here and says hello.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Not too terrible.’

  With my sandy hands in my pockets, I ask him about the bike and he nods. ‘It washed in with the river this morning.’ He points down the beach, towards where the river, usually modest, flows into the sea. It’s swollen from yesterday’s heavy rain.

>   I forget to thank him or say goodbye; I just walk away towards the river, my eyes on the haze above it. As I get closer I realise that I’ve been able to hear it for a while, and I see that it has really swollen. It’s rushing towards the sea with frantic speed, spilling over its banks and across the sand. Leaves and snapped branches are travelling with it.

  So the bike came this way. It left the area around the temples, joined the river and found its way to Mike. For a while, I just stare at my toes as they sink into the wet sand. I can smell the sand. I can taste salt on my lips as I chew on them. I have an idea.

  Spinning around, I run back to the car with Mike’s music twinkling in my wake. I can feel my idea spreading; its flowers are blooming, cutting off the light supply to the other thoughts I have; thoughts which are dark already, and deserve to wither and die.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’ve been driving for ten minutes and the trees are closing in. As my heart rate slows and my grip on the steering wheel gradually loosens, I realise that I don’t want to do this by myself. It’s hard to think things through when you’re alone. The words go around and around, turning into shapes and faces and making me want to give up on everything. So, I make a U-turn and head back into town, thinking: Steve or Lena, Steve or Lena? My clenched jaw begins to ache.

  Outside the fishermen’s place, children are playing in the shade beneath some sheets of corrugated metal, and chickens scratch at the ground, shaking their heads as if very angry. With the engine switched off, the car fills with a hot, steamy silence. I almost drive away again, to pick up Steve instead. But I pull the key from the ignition, look for a second or two at the keyring, a Mickey Mouse one from Disney World, and then get out of the car. It rolls along the street for a bit after I slam the door, despite the handbrake being on. The children point and laugh.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ I shout, shuffling after it, and eventually it does, like a weary animal. Even Steve’s car is turning against me. The three of us used to be a team, driving and talking all over this island. Again, I consider going back for him, but don’t. I’m not going to give him anything until he makes a gesture, tries to make things right.

  One of the fishermen is sitting outside the building, doing something with a knife and a net. He smiles at me around his cigarette. As I make for the door he shakes his head and says something along the lines of: ‘No, don’t go in.’

  ‘What?’ I go ahead anyway, unhooking a piece of metal that’s keeping the door closed.

  The noise is what gets me first; flesh smacking against flesh, panting, groaning, and Lena’s head grinding against the floor. Lena cranes her neck up over the fisherman’s shoulder. She screams but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. I freeze for a second, my eyes full of tensed limbs, sweat and shadows, and then I run outside, slamming the door so hard that it bounces in its crooked frame.

  ‘I tell you,’ the fisherman outside says. He has his left foot balanced on his right knee, and he jiggles these about, causing his sandal to slip off and hang from his toes. He’s laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I whisper.

  Back in the car, I pull my hair from my hot face and straighten the rear-view mirror for no reason. It takes a couple of goes to get the engine started, but then I drive away quickly, causing the children to jump to the side of the road. Looking back at them, I see a boy throw a can after me. It bounces, skimming over potholes and catching the sun. I pull on my seatbelt and pick up speed. The town spins past; a kaleidoscope of doorways, trees, skinny animals and bicycles. I’m better off alone. I can get things done properly this way, just like I used to at my old newspaper. I’ve been relying on Steve for too long and Lena was always a shitty friend, now that I think about it.

  I come up against a road block not too far from the bomb site. I don’t know if its connected to the bomb, but men in hard hats are standing waist deep in a hole in the ground, where pipes and dirty water are exposed. I stop in the road for a moment but one of them, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, shakes his head at me and points back the way I came. I turn around and have to head back along the coast road.

  I just breathe, think in circles, and keep one fist curled in my lap. Logically I know that Lena’s done nothing wrong, and yet I can’t think of her now without feeling a warm sort of pain. Steve too. Why isn’t he here with me? Why can’t he see that doing this, following a hunch and a feeling, is all that we can do right now? It’s like the two of them have purposely engineered things so that I have to go on alone.

  My thoughts are moving the way they did back in England, when I’d quit work and was spending a lot of time sitting in bed doing nothing. I remember flicking through one of those crappy women’s magazines my sister had brought round, and thinking: How do we know that the before and after photos were taken in the order they’re telling us? Perhaps we’re not looking at a miraculous transformation but an unremarkable decline? The way I felt back then is how I feel now; like everything’s a dirty lie and I’m the only one to realise.

  ‘Oh, just shut up,’ I say to myself out loud, and that’s when I notice a small crowd on the beach, near to where I was speaking with Mike just a little while ago. I slow down and spot Steve, standing apart from the other people. They’re all staring in the same direction.

  I pull over and stop the car, then run onto the beach, my feet sinking into the sand and slowing me down. Some of the people have their phones or cameras out, but Steve has his arms hanging by his side, holding one shoe in each hand, his canvas trousers rolled up towards his knees. Same as everyone else, he’s looking towards the swollen river which cuts through the sand and into the turquoise sea.

  ‘They’re bringing him out,’ someone shouts.

  I come up beside Steve and he looks at me, meeting my eyes. He doesn’t say anything. We both look back towards the river, and see men dragging a body out from where it had become caught on a washed-up branch. For just a moment I can see everything. The white shirt pasted to the body. The wide-open jaw. Eyes open too.

  ‘That’s Mr Shuttleworth all right,’ Steve says under his breath. I watch him write the name down in his notepad; I think he does this just for an excuse to look away. When I look back up from Steve’s green biro, the body has gone, zipped inside a bag.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ I say.

  ‘That’s that,’ Steve says, still staring at the river.

  All this time, I’d been hoping that Mr Shuttleworth’s disappearance would turn out to be a misunderstanding; he’d hurried off to Aspen or wherever it was he was headed, and had left his house in a mess. Perhaps a bat had got in, and he’d smashed things up with a broom trying to get rid of it. The bats on this island are huge, and fly low over your head with menacing squeaks.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw a dead body?’ Steve says.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I was eight years old. It was a car accident outside the house, and I still dream about that one. Twenty years later I watched my mother die slowly in a hospital bed, and throughout my career I’ve seen all manner of corpses. But now, I think, I’ve seen too many. I reached my limit the other night. This one is one too many. I’m done with it.’

  I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to want a response anyway. He shakes his head and kicks at the sand. He doesn’t watch as the bag is loaded clumsily into the back of a van that is parked at the edge of the beach, where sand has blown onto the tarmac and a puddle has swamped a storm drain.

  ‘This river flows from where the temples are,’ I say.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I know so. I already checked. Can we go somewhere to talk?’

  ‘Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry,’ he says, grabbing one of my hands as the crowd begins to move around us, heading off the beach and towards the road back into town. ‘Our conversation earlier didn’t go the way I wanted it to at all. Usually, when I talk to you it makes my own thoughts jump into order, but today they just got even more scrambled.’
>
  ‘It’s okay. I don’t think I’ve been acting the way I ought to either.’

  ‘We have been through a lot these last few days,’ Steve says. ‘We tend to forget that.’

  ‘Are you really going to stay with your daughter?’ I ask. ‘It’s fine if you are. I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. It just surprised me. I’m not sure what I’m going to do here without you.’

  ‘I’m still going to go, yeah. But not yet. We’re mixed up in all of this whether I like it or not. Bernard fucking Shuttleworth has just washed up dead on the beach. I can’t leave without knowing how that happened.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and smile. But then I remember how Shuttleworth’s shirt looked just now, like the greasy plastic they wrap around fish at the market, and my smile melts.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘I had a text message from Kadesadayurat telling me I should get to the beach because someone had found something. That’s all,’ Steve says. We’re back at the office, sitting by the window at our cluttered little table. The sun tumbles in over us, casting shadows for even the little biscuit crumbs that we’ve dropped as we talk. I have a piece of paper in front of me, but I haven’t made any notes yet.

  ‘He didn’t tell you anything else?’

  ‘No, and he wasn’t there when I arrived. The people who first spotted the body were still there; some French tourists. And a group of foreign journalists had arrived before me. They were so excited. First the bomb and now this.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘They were excited?’

  ‘They were trying to hide it but I could tell they were thrilled. They kept shuffling closer to the river but the police arrived and sent them back, again and again. I recognised one of the policemen but he wouldn’t talk to me. None of them would talk to me. Kadesadayurat isn’t getting back to me.’ Steve picks up his phone to check the screen, and then shoves it back into his pocket, shaking his head.